


Tears of blood

by asvlm



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 19:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6253501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asvlm/pseuds/asvlm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angst</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tears of blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hybridempress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hybridempress/gifts).



He rushed into the room, as soon as he'd opened the doors. His son had hurt himself, he had done so so very terribly, he'd done one of the unthinkable things of the faith he had been sure the other had been of. The loss of his son, it was horrible. 

 

Francis didn't care about the blood, only enough that he was able to see how much he had lost. Nearly three litres of blood now, this wasn't going to be something he would be able to recover from easily. Not even Francis had, not really, the one time shit had hit the fan. He moved his hand to try and put pressure on one of his arms, to try and clinch the slices of skin together. It wasn’t working, however, and Francis was aware of it. It was just too much, too easy, for that to work. Francis knew that. 

 

So, there was only one option, for him. He moved his fingers to close Matt’s eyes, and he moved him to the bed. Perhaps that would help, when he came back. It wasn’t a lot that was going to help, but Francis could feel the pain welling in his own body, coursing through his veins like he was high, and the pain a drug. 

 

That was something he would be able to compare it to, now that he thought of it. Francis was certainly hooked on the drug of pain. He knew that the boy on the bed thought of himself as nothing, but the pain of losing Matthew was another fix for the Frenchman. 

 

He let that sort of thought move through his body, as he started to clean up the blood on the floor. This wasn’t the first time He’d found the boy on his floor, the blood pooling around him, but the last time, he’d made Matt promise that he would call Francis before doing something as rash as slicing the skin from his body. That only led to more problems, and though he did get attention, it was mostly do to the fact of guilt, a feeling no one would normally wish to be the reason they were on their way to attention. 

 

The ride after everything was clean was a long one. He felt like a father that had lost everything, once again. He knew Matt would wake to some warm water, next to his bed, some pills, a straw so it wouldn’t have to use his arms, and a scrawling note that said he’d be back tomorrow, to ensure that everything was alright. It was all finished with the words, in bold letters, “I love you, Matthew.” 

 

He let these thoughts once again move through his mind, as he looked up at the shower that was pounding on his body, more and more pain pressing through him. He’d had centuries more practice than Matthew, after all. He looked at his weeping arms, so much like his son has seem, but it was more akin to slices of skin. He didn’t do the long one, the terrible slices that meant finality so very quickly. No, he let his arms feel the hot water soothe him into a lull, the water so deeply pressing into his cuts, the worst ones to the white, and beautiful bone. 

 

Sometimes, he felt that was the only place he was clean. The only place that held no dirt. His eyes moved down to the pants, and cut through them, with the razors he used for art, his skin was dripping into the dark material, but it was too late to take it off. Nothing had been this bad. It was just taking so damn long. How could he be a good father? He had left his son to wake without a father, but with two brothers who forgot him every time. Francis at least tried to remember. 

 

But Matt was too much for him to handle, it seemed. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew that he was pitying himself again. That didn’t matter, as he was pounding with water, the pressing of the feeble blood was hard, and he was half panting, the breathing short. 

  
He closed his eyes, one last time, as he felt everything drift into a gloss, a haze, a fog. 


End file.
